


If it's bad luck that suits us, I'm one of a kind

by proleptic_fancy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Youngblood Chronicles, Bad end, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonnies Made Me Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 13:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10219139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proleptic_fancy/pseuds/proleptic_fancy
Summary: What if Pete was the first one in the truck?[Or,Just One Yesterdaygoes a little differently, but the outcome remains the same.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my usual enabler, and the unusual ones as well.
> 
> Title is from A Great Reckoning by The Damned Things, because let's be real, I don't go in hard for subtle.

It’s almost peaceful in the back of the truck. 

Almost, because his head is pounding and he’s still pretty woozy from whatever those fucking whackjobs pumped him full of. Or maybe it’s just from losing all that blood, since it seems like if the drugs were working the way they ought to be, he shouldn’t _hurt_ quite so much.

Peaceful, because in spite of all that, he can feel Andy leaning up against him, solid and warm, and Patrick’s knees knocking into his every time they hit a bump in the road. His top priority may have been to make it out of there with all his parts and pieces still attached, but it would have made for a hollow victory, alone.

Peaceful just because they’re moving, fast enough that the cool air rushing past him stops the humidity from clinging to his skin. It carries away the stench of smoke and sweat and blood and rot, and the roar of it in his ears is enough to drown out the noise, let the adrenaline crash start to pull him under.

Even when they slow down, everything sort of blurs together. Like, if he really concentrates, he can pull out phrases like, “attacked,” and “hospital,” and “fucking _snakes_ , man” from whatever Pete’s babbling at the girl up front, or a little snatch of an unfamiliar melody, tinny from the truck’s shitty speakers.

None of it’s worth the effort it takes to pay attention. He should be saving that effort, anyway. Just in case.

Which is why he doesn’t hear the voice calling his name until he feels the hand on his shoulder, snaps open his eyes to see Patrick kneeling in front of him. His face is caked over with blood and grime, so close that the smell of it turns Joe’s stomach, but his bloodshot eyes are wide with concern.

“Hey, that looks pretty bad,” he says. “What happened?”

Joe doesn’t know if he means the leg or something else, so he cocks his free shoulder in a vague shrug and says, “Got hit.”

He lost track of how many times. And with what. He thinks he remembers a bat. A bat with fucking nails in it.

“Let me see?”

Joe doesn’t bother to shrug again. He doesn’t bother to say no, either, just closes his eyes again and lets his head thump back against the glass behind him. Patrick can fuss if it will make him feel better. It won’t make any difference.

For a few seconds, nobody moves. He can tell Patrick is still there, can feel the heat of his feverish skin across the space in between them. On any other day, he might have had an opinion about this. After the last forty-eight hours, though, he can’t bring himself to risk it—he can worry about the things he’s never said when he’s a little more confident any of them will live long enough for it to matter.

He jerks, hard, when cold metal brushes his forehead—hard enough that Patrick loses his balance and lurches forward to slam into Joe’s chest, which wakes Andy with a start, and even Pete stops talking long enough to turn around and see what the hell is going on back there.

Joe has to swallow through the pain, get his breath back before he can help Patrick up. There’s a low, guilty feeling in his gut, an uncomfortable awareness of every pinprick of sweat on his palms and the back of his neck that’s getting harder to ignore the longer the moment stretches out.

It only gets worse when Patrick pulls back, tries to stumble through an apology. His hand keeps running over the hook like he’s trying to keep it out of sight, and now Joe feels like a real asshole for freaking out. Which—the whole hook thing is extremely fucking freaky, like, what the hell, Pete? How is that better? But that doesn’t mean it’s Patrick’s fault for trying his best to make do.

“Fuck, man. It’s okay,” he lies. “I just—I forgot. That’s all.”

Patrick still hesitates, until Joe leans forward and wraps his hand around Patrick’s arm, just about where the hard leather cuff meets skin underneath his sleeve.

“Go ahead. It’s okay,” he repeats.

It’s not.

As it turns out, being able to see it coming doesn’t make it any less weird, so Joe does his best to focus on the sharp little furrow up between Patrick’s eyes instead of the strange sensation of the hook tugging back his tangled hair. It’s obvious Patrick’s trying to be gentle, but it’s just as obvious that he’s not used to manipulating his new appendage, and Joe has to grit his teeth to stop himself from twitching every time the sharp point of it grazes along his scalp. 

After the second nasty poke, he considers asking if this really has to be a thing they need to take care of in a moving vehicle, and if it is, then whether maybe Andy could take over. Then again, Patrick’s other hand has slipped up under Joe’s jacket to hold him steady against the cab, his thumb rocking back and forth just under Joe’s collarbone as he concentrates. To his eternal despair, Joe has several opinions about this, and all of them seem to be winning out over his careful cost-benefit analysis regarding potholes and pointy objects and the precious sanctity of his eyeballs, so he keeps his mouth shut at least a little longer.

As much as he’s mastering this whole stoic thing, he still can’t stop the wince when Patrick finds the spot where the curls are matted and sticky and the hook snags with a hot jolt of pain.

“Shit,” Patrick mutters. 

Whatever he’s looking at, somewhere above Joe’s eyes, has made him go a little green under the layer of gunk. His fingers clamp down, curling into Joe’s chest so hard he imagines he’ll find a handprint there the next time he takes off his shirt—just above his heart, the little motherfucker. 

It’s all very ironic, or maybe symbolic, or one of those literary kind of things. Whatever. Pete would have a fucking field day, is what he’s getting at, and the only thing that cuts off _that_ horror-show train of thought is Patrick, again, saying, “Shit, that’s a lot of blood.”

“Head wound,” Andy says. His voice is raspy, burned-out from the smoke and god only knows what else, but he’s calm, and Joe is grateful for that. “Remember that time Pete fell off the stage in Beloit and had to get all those stitches? Bled like a motherfucker, but he was fine, yeah?”

Patrick swallows, nods, and Joe nudges Andy with his leg in a silent, _thank you_.

Andy nudges him back. Then he does him one better, jerks his thumb out toward the road in front of them, and says, “Hospital’s just up ahead.”

That’s enough to get Patrick to relax his death grip. Joe expects him to back off, now that safety is in sight.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he tilts his head like he’s considering something before he scoots in to settle himself closer—enough that Joe has to spread his legs further apart to make room for him—and then he strokes the hook through Joe’s hair again, taking care not to let it catch on any knots.

It’s—well, it’s still too fucking freaky to be relaxing, but Joe’s surprised at how little he minds, anyway, when Patrick keeps it up, slow and even. He seems more comfortable doing it now, for some reason Joe can’t even begin to comprehend, and like most things with Patrick, that does make him an awful lot better at it.

“You would be some weirdo hook savant,” Joe says, when the silence becomes too loaded to bear. “Next you’re gonna tell me you figured out how to scratch your balls with that thing—actually,” he adds quickly, when Patrick finally looks him in the eye, his expression hovering somewhere along the transition between hurt and amused, “maybe don’t tell me that while you’re touching my face with it. It’s been a traumatic day.”

That earns him a snort from Andy. Patrick’s reaction takes a second longer to sink in, but it’s worth it when his eyes light up with a wicked gleam and he slides the hook down to press the curve of it against Joe’s temple.

From anybody else, it would probably be new-pants-please terrifying. Luckily, it’s _Patrick_ —ridiculous fucking Patrick who lost a fucking hand and is still sitting here trying not to laugh at Joe’s terrible dick jokes, because they have all had a traumatic fucking day.

“Nope, now you did it,” he says, and fuck, was his face this close a second ago? “I hope you’re ready for a real educational experience.”

Joe is not ready. 

Joe is not ready for Patrick’s hand fisting in his grimy, sweat-soaked shirt, nor is he in any way prepared for the way time seems to slow to a singular, terrifying instant when his eyes catch on Patrick’s teeth digging into his lower lip.

He’s so busy trying to keep all these fucking opinions from turning into ideas—dangerous, mutinous ideas, like, _you can just blame the blood loss if he freaks out_ , or worse, _if you stop now, you’re always gonna wonder_ —that he barely notices the truck pulling to a stop.

Pete lets out a yelp behind him, and Joe blinks. The spell is broken, but he’s still slow to react, still has to think about it before he remembers to breathe.

He only takes his eyes off of Patrick for a second—just long enough to try and figure out what’s going on—when he feels the hook pull up into his hair and _twist_. 

Someone is shouting Patrick’s name. 

It might be him. It’s hard to tell. Either way, it cuts out when his head slams against the bed of the truck and the world goes fuzzy around the edges. He tries to struggle when he feels the weight on top of him. Tries to kick out, push back, get away, get away, get _away_ from the white-hot prick of agony digging into his throat.

But he’s so tired, all of the sudden. And he can’t seem to pull any air into his lungs, no matter how hard he tries. It just keeps slipping away.

As everything starts to go dark, the rushing in his ears picks up like the wind around him, until the low, dull roar is only thing left he can hear. 

It’s peaceful, almost.


End file.
